


Don't Underestimate John Watson

by BakerTumblings



Category: Fargo (2014), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Brief mention of cigarette use, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark John, I swear watching Martin Freeman in Fargo messed up my head, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Never underestimate John Watson, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Shameless abuse of the series timeline, not nice to mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They want you to do <i>what</i>?" Sherlock asked again, incredulous, over tea at Baker Street.</p><p>"They want me to read for a part in a TV series."</p><p>"And they want <i>you</i>?"  Sherlock was beyond skeptical.  "For that role?  Mr. military service, good-deeds, doctor, John Watson?"  </p><p>John felt his teeth grit together, and he exhaled.  "Don't forget <i>blogger</i>, while you're bloody insulting me."  If John needed more motivation to want this to work out, Sherlock had just given it to him.  People underestimated him all the time, and he was getting pretty damn sick of it.</p><p> ***</p><p>John Watson's blog, and his occasionally publicly visible association with Sherlock Holmes, has made him rather famous.  He has been noticed by the casting director of Fargo.  And he has been summoned to audition for a role that they feel is made for him, that of Lester Nygaard, an insurance salesman turned wife-killer and master of deception.  It is certainly not necessary to have watched Fargo in order to completely get this AU.</p><p>Sometimes dangerous things come in surprising packages.  John Watson has been rather underestimated for entirely too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John and Lester get Acquainted

**Author's Note:**

> It almost felt like I was cheating on BBC's Sherlock by watching Fargo. Apparently my mind decided to alleviate the guilt over the infidelity by crafting a fusion of sorts, in which John Watson, not Martin Freeman, is going to be cast in the role of Lester.

"They want you to do _what_?" Sherlock asked again, incredulous, over tea at Baker Street.

"They want me to read for a part in a TV series."

"Why on earth would they ask you?"

"Oh, you know, press conferences and blog publicity, the ring came from someone who had seen that last press conference, you know the one where you stormed out and I had to do some serious damage control?  You left me high and dry, thank you very much, and I had to think quickly, come up with some creative, witty answers, perhaps that was why.  Maybe I just am the right size, who knows?  But they want me to do a screen test, and if I get the part, the money will be very good for a rather short stint."

"You'll be away, then, for a while?"

"It will be shot in Calgary.  Back and forth for a few months. I am working with an agent now, who said, if I land the part, that we might be able to control a little of the schedule." John picked up the tea at his elbow, sipped, and continued, "You could come with me if you want, maybe. See a bit of the world."

The silent look Sherlock gives him seems to indicate that he thinks John may have actually had a psychotic break.

John shrugged.  "It's not a guaranteed thing - I might not get the part.  It's going to require re-learning how to talk.  Not just a bloody American accent, but a _Minnesotan_ accent, of all things   _You betcha_."  John has already been doing a bit of research on the area, some of the slang and colloquialisms.

Sherlock was puzzled.  "What the hell is that?"

"A Minnesota accent?  The way they talk.  Actors have to do that all the time."  Sherlock was not convinced.  "You would probably be fantastic at it, if you put your mind to it.  Or impressions, impersonating someone, getting the inflections and the mannerisms down...?"  He was still not convinced, and John could tell something was on his mind, something brewing.  He toned it down, saying, "I'm not sure I want to do it, anyway."

Sherlock narrowed an eye, stared unblinking at John.  "Yes, you do want it, obviously."  He was dismissive, then.  "Let them find someone else to play the pretty boy part."

"Actually," John cleared his throat, picked up the newspaper casually, knowing this part will drive Sherlock round the bend, "the character is evil.  He's kind of an unassuming insurance salesman on the outside, but a _killer_.  He's twisted, promiscuous, and conniving underneath."

"And they want _you_?"  He was beyond incredulous.  "For that role, _please_.  Mr. military service, good-deeds, doctor, John Watson?"  

John felt his teeth grit together, exhaled.  "Don't forget _blogger_ , while you're bloody insulting me."  If John needed more motivation to want this to work out, Sherlock had just given it to him.  People underestimated him all the time, and he was getting pretty damn sick of it.

~~~~~ * ~~~~~

And so when John landed the part, Sherlock was even more intrigued.  He spent  _hours_ pondering the motivation of why John Watson would even remotely consider something as banal and fake as acting.  "It makes no sense." he stated regularly, in various formats, almost every day.

"Challenge.  It'll be fun.  Besides, it's like living out a character, a criminal, waiting for the local PD to solve the case.  They've got their own version of Lestrade and Donovan there, too, the Fargo PD, some who get it and some who don't."

"They don't have a consulting detective."

"The season wouldn't go past one episode if they did."  It was as close as John was going to get to paying him a compliment, today anyway.

"I want to read the script."

"Not allowed.  It's in my contract."  John was amused by Sherlock's supposed lack of recall from these daily conversations.  "We've been over this."

"No one is allowed to read it?  What if I wanted to help you run lines or something?"

" _You_.  Help me run lines."  John made a disbelieving, skeptical face.  "Like that would happen."

"Well, maybe someone else, then."

"Oh, no, other people are allowed.  But my contract specifically excludes _you_.  I think they're afraid you'll take issue with the characters and the plot lines.  It's about a drifter and a happenstance meeting with my character, but actually much more complicated..."

John got a glimpse, then, of why the casting director had specifically been very clear about John's flatmate and that there was a separate addendum to the contract regarding Sherlock's involvement.  Or complete non-involvement.  John never mentioned Sherlock accompanying him since he'd first brought it up, as Sherlock was explicitly excluded from filming locations as well.  Sherlock went off then, spouting statistics about small town crime, the likelihood of a drifter committing a crime spree of such magnitude, and then proceeded to complain about narrow minded American entertainment ignoring what could have been a brilliant partnership, that he should have been brought on as a consultant.

They got involved, however, there in London with their own intrigue that circled around Sherlock and linked Richard Brook to Jim Moriarty, then, which becomes more and more concerning.  John spent some weeks traveling, staying in Canada for short stretches while Sherlock ordered and reordered and took down his Baker Street wall collage, dearranging everything in the flat to ugly chaos.  He was so frustrated and stressed out that John, with a small degree of chagrin, looked forward to the stretch of days when he was traveling, for the escape, the peace and quiet.

At one point, while John was packing his case again, Sherlock turned on him.  "You're my best mate and you are _leaving_ when I need you.  Why do you have to do this anyway?  It's pointless and ridiculous and _boring_."

John stilled, hearing what Sherlock was saying more in tone than the actual words.  "I signed a contract.  Had we known things were going to heat up here, obviously I wouldn't have committed this way."  He tried to gently assure him it's short lived, that he'll be back soon, that he will talk with the director and producer about getting a stretch of days off to be around more to help.  Sherlock nodded, and John felt a twinge of compassion in a way he hadn't before.  Sherlock doesn't like playing second to anything, John knew, and perhaps was resentful of his time investment in non-Sherlock-centric activities.  He tried to explain, and Sherlock only got huffy, burrowing his nose in the laptop.  "We'll figure something out.  Maybe I should think like Lester," John said, looking at the photos of Moriarty, Sherlock's London rats, and some of the perplexing evidence tacked up on their wallpaper.  "My character actually, for a season of time anyway, murders his wife, escapes from a secured hospital room, frames someone for murder, punches a cop to escape getting killed, plants fake adulterous evidence on his brother, and gets away with all of it until the very last episode of season 1."  

"Like you would ever be able to do that in real life," Sherlock scoffed, his disdain for the casting again, coming to conversation.

"The dailies are coming together, you know, the director and producers are pleased.  It's a good product."  John felt his spine straighten, his posture change.  He felt his jaw clench and reminded himself to be bloody careful.  "I did invade Afghanistan, as you seem to forget.  And you know, you would do well not to underestimate me.  If faced with the right reasons, I could do exactly what Lester does."

Sherlock looks over, sideways, amused.  "Of course."  Sherlock's sarcasm was just dripping, then, as he continued, "Murder, deception, a big set-up - maybe this role is training you for the future."

"In case I ever need to murder my flatmate and get away with it, of course.  Never know when _that's_ going to come in handy," John said cryptically.  John saw that Sherlock was not engaged, added, "There's actually a bit of on screen sex, which we're shooting this week."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised again.  "Male partner?"

John couldn't stop the smile. "Female. A very _hot_  one."  

"Probably a good thing.  You'd unlikely be able to jump the fence to pull that off."  John leveled a look at him, thinking that Sherlock had not yet figured out that John had not only jumped the fence, but seemed to prefer it there.  He was first irritated, then _challenged_ , at Sherlock's lack of confidence in him.

"I would have been okay with either."  John kept his tone light, licked his lips, and, through slightly lowered lids, casually watched Sherlock's gaze drop to his mouth.

Sherlock's hastily exhaled breath clearly communicated that he disagreed.

John quickly considered his options.  He moved just a bit closer, slid his hand onto Sherlock's thigh, watched Sherlock's reaction.  His _uncertain_ reaction.  "You think not?  Maybe you can help me with it.  You know, to further my career if need be."  John let his eyes darken, pressed in closer invading personal space, a hand coming up along Sherlock's jaw and into his hair.  The curls were soft and silky in his fingers, and he used what he knew of Sherlock's sensitive hair follicles against him, tugging lightly, his hand reaching back behind Sherlock's head to draw their faces and lips closer.  Their breath mingled, warm, smelling remotely of tea and mint and _life_.  John struggled hard to keep the amusement out of his eyes as he watched Sherlock's gaze flick to John's mouth as they drew closer, lips finally meeting, dry, firm.  John let his tongue sneak out and watched and felt Sherlock's breath stutter as John deepened the kiss, let his own intake of breath be audible and obvious.  The meeting of lips was tentative and tingly and exciting, exactly how John planned it.

And then he pulled away, carelessly letting his hand release Sherlock's head.  He picked up a neutral expression again.  "Yeah, guess you were right, my acting skills are shit."  He sat for a few minutes, toying with a journal, then stood, leaving Sherlock in a momentary state of shock at what John had just pulled off.

 ~~~~ * ~~~~~~

John was no sooner through the door during one of the long-weekend breaks when Sherlock looked up, his nose raising suddenly in interest.  He met John at the door as John was still hanging up his jacket.  They were watching each other, with John both puzzled and slightly amused as Sherlock's attention was focused.  Honest to god, he did miss Sherlock quite a bit while he was away and was glad to get home to the flat and London.  Sherlock, having closed the gap between them and now stood toe to toe, inclined his head, leaning down, sniffing.  He put his nose toward John's hair, inhaling, then to his jacket, his shoulder, but when he burrowed into the meeting of shirt collar and neck, John reacted.  " _What the hell!  Enough!_ "  He pushed at Sherlock's form, stepping away.

"Smoking, John, really?"  Sherlock reached long fingers into John's jacket pockets, came up empty of cigarette packs.  "Bad form not bringing any home for me."

"Yeah, well."  John _could_ have described what had actually happened:

Just prior to a break in filming, the cast and crew were working under pressure to finish out a few of the scenes that needed a few re-takes.  One scene, when Lester and the wife of one of the murder victims are going at it on her bed, was last on the schedule for the day.  The director kept trying other angles of the shoot, other sexual positions, and finally it was left to just John, the woman, and the required set crew.  By the time they are reviewing a quick look at the takes, John was summoned, again, to try something a bit different with the lighting, and they were all frustrated.  The director, in a rare moment of exasperation, insulted John's acting skills and wondered, sneeringly out loud why again they didn't hire a professional.  When John took a deep breath to respond to that, eyes blazing, the director shoved him toward the set, and said, "Roll that again, right now, and, _action_ ," and John with considerable effort and thinly veiled anger, slipped back into character but furiously this time, and ended up leaving his shirt mostly on as he and the woman appear to copulate doggie-style, madly, on her bed.  The finality of the act, the intense set of John's face and the sounds he emitted instead of the scripted lines, left them all a bit silent, impressed, and once "cut" was called, it was followed shortly by "that's a wrap, folks".  The director waited for John to slide trousers back on, and then beckoned him authoritatively outside.  

John was silent, waiting.  If he'd been called, he figured the director, had something to say to him.  "You know, that was brilliant.  Exactly what we needed from you."  He lit a smoke, inhaled deeply, offered one to John.

John shrugged, and took the cigarette he was handed.  The doctor in him balked, but he lit up and had a drag or two there in the cold Calgary air.  "Thanks."  He angled an eyebrow.  "Insulting me, apparently, leads to a bit of anger.  In case you need it again."

He laughed, then, said, "I'm not sure we'll need to motivate you further.  You have a lot inside of you."  When John looked back, puzzled, he continued, "In some ways, you're similar to Lester's character.  You come across one way, but are actually very complicated underneath."  He moved as if to go back inside, extinguishing his own cigarette.  "Hate these things 90% of the time."

John nodded in agreement, knowing that Sherlock would certainly smell it on him hours later when he finally stumbled into their flat even after a long trip.  "Eh, seems fitting after a good sex scene, if you ask me."  They grinned at that, and the director nodded.

"Nice work today, John.  Have a good break."

And so, there on Baker Street, John _could_ have related all that really went down.

++

What John chose to say to Sherlock instead was, "Just a one-off."

"Something that's going to be on film, you smoking?"

"No.  Seemed an appropriate way to end a sex scene shoot, though."

"So is that what it would take to share a cigarette with you?"

John stifled his reaction, primarily the giggle that wanted to break out, and said, "Perhaps.  I'm curious, though, which do you want more - the sex or the cigarette?"  Sherlock had no verbal response immediately.  "Keep in mind that _the cigarette, anyway,_ is bad for your health."  There was a moment then of slightly uncomfortable eye contact, and John let his eyes drift to the enticing fullness of Sherlock's lip.  Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, but had no response.  John went to the kitchen, particularly in the mood for tea.  And to escape, so he could smile, snicker, and catch his breath out of Sherlock's line of sight.

~~~~~**~~~~~

The next break, John thinks Sherlock is as stressed as he'd ever seen him.  There are clandestine meetings with Mycroft, and John is specifically excluded.  His days before the final filming are short, and in that period of time, they had not managed to have much of even a casual conversation.  Sherlock refuses to speak regarding his current situation, and considers John's acting efforts only enough to ask, "Is there any chance at all you're going to continue on filming in season 2?" 

They'd been over this.  He squelches down the irritation that Sherlock is selfish and has ignored all that John has already shared.  He reassures himself that the end is in sight, and answers, "None, I told you.  Remember, Lester dies?  He completely deserves it, for murdering his wife, sending his new wife directly to her death, setting up many people to be hurt and deceived."  

Sherlock nodded, considering that.  His only reply, "Good."  John studied his countenance, then, quietly, somber.  He tried to guess what is going on and if Sherlock is in more danger than usual.  When Sherlock looked up to find John's quiet scrutiny, he shrugged, looked away, but John can tell there is a question or comment brewing.

"So Lionel is bad -"

"Lester."

"Whatever."  Just once, John thought, he would like Sherlock to know what it's like to be dismissed like Sherlock does to him regularly.  "So when he finally dies, do you think there was any other option?  Did he have to die?"

"He was evil."

"Could he have been given a second chance, turned things around?"

John considered that for a bit.  "Not really.  Once the plan was set in motion, there was no going back."

"His fate was sealed."

"Of course."  John sees Sherlock's serious and crestfallen expression.  "We're not talking about Lester," John said then, a queasy feeling brewing in his chest.

"Of course not."  The look in both of their eyes, then, particularly from the seriousness of Sherlock's sad expression, has John rather concerned.

"Sherlock, please tell me what's going on?"

At which, Sherlock stood, grabbed his Belstaff, and left the flat.  He did not return again before John had departed for the final round of filming.

 


	2. Post Production Drama Ensues

And so it came to pass, that filming ended, and the series went to post-production.

Sherlock expresses no interest in watching it, or hearing about it, even when John asked if he wanted to accompany him to the FX premiere showing for the cast, crew, and investors.

As it turned out, John didn't go, either.

Because Sherlock bloody Holmes took a long leap off a tall building, and whatever had been occupying so much of Sherlock's time and energy obviously came to an end, unsolved. Devastation and grief hit, hard and deep, and John was plagued with nightmares, insomnia, and isolation. Mycroft, if he'd been distant and unreachable previously, was untouchable and cold now, avoiding John completely. John, in moments of guilt, can't blame him and wondered if Mycroft himself blamed John for the failure to prevent this, failure to keep Sherlock safe, failure as a friend when Sherlock did actually need him. John wondered if Mycroft expected more from him, as he was well aware Mycroft knew about the top-secret activities that John had been a key player in while deployed.  It made no difference now, what was done was done.

Due to John's semi-scandalous involvement in the very public suicide of Sherlock Holmes, the Fargo release was put on hold. The Fargo promotion team watched headlines, finally noting with relief when John Watson ceased to be mentioned, and eventually neither name was newsworthy any longer. The series launched a few months later than expected, but John, still somewhat shocked and mourning, didn't pay much attention to the victories and acclaims that Fargo received. Reviews and excellent ratings went largely unnoticed, and John's villainous character Lester Nygaard wreaked havoc on the show even as fallout from Sherlock's suicide wreaked havoc on John. There was a piece of John Watson that envied Lester - his story had ended, his pain over. John moved out of Baker Street, took a different job at the request of the clinic that let him go citing budget considerations. John met one very pretty, and, unknown to John, very duplicitous, Mary Morstan.

When Sherlock returned, showing up obnoxiously at a restaurant of all things, John and Mary were already a serious thing. The wedding took on a life of its own, with Sherlock planning and John mostly carried along for the ride, the wheels set in motion and hard to stop. There was more than a little angst, confusion, and tension between John and Sherlock. Some mixed messages and things left unspoken one drunk evening at John's stag party left both of them unsettled. Neither knew entirely what to do with it.  It came to a peak at John's wedding reception, where Sherlock moved an entire room to tears and stunned John with the realisation that Sherlock loved him. And, he realised, he loved him back. Later, when John and Mary had settled across town, and he was by himself, he could only shake his head at the desperate turn of events that now had him married to someone else, bound by vows he made.

It all came to a screeching halt the day John discovered that Mary, who was apparently more than met the eye, shot Sherlock. And there in the long hallway of Leinster Gardens, Sherlock made sure that John found out everything. When Mary made a statement that John must never find out, something inside of John changed. He was livid but calm, resolute and determined - it was real and suffusive and overwhelming, and a scheme was unlocked in John's dark mind, something Lester would have done at the peak of his game, all quite carefully hidden away and waiting for the right time. And so John stayed with Sherlock, helped him recover, but he was a ghost of a man, all locked down tight and functioning, but empty. The sparkle of life that had been John Watson was operating somewhere below decks. The plan in his mind, though, anything but quiet as he bided his time.

Christmas Day, there in Sherlock's parents living room, John and Mary shared a heart to heart, or so it was supposed to seem. There were tears and a flash drive and eventual ingestion of drugged tea. Sherlock could see John's grief still evident in the set of his features and the dullness of his eyes. And he was poised in the room to have a direct view of John's face, after the discussion regarding Mary's name and the hug of reconciliation around a very gravid belly. The face, as Sherlock saw it and Mary could not, was cold. Empty. Calculating. Sherlock could see it in the set of John's jaw and the dullness of his spirit. And underneath that was something that would have made Sherlock's blood run cold had it been directed at him - John's anger.

Later that day, as events played out of control, Sherlock was hauled off to prison and Mycroft set a huge deception of his own, to allow a British governmental need to supersede justice, rescue his brother. John eventually moved back in with Mary, and Sherlock and John were awkward when they were together, neither acknowledging what had played out and what needed to be settled. Sherlock still didn't think John was functioning well, definitely not himself. There was something mechanical about the man. Or perhaps it was something devious. Greg and Sherlock both hoped that perhaps the arrival of the baby would get things back on track for the Watson's.

Mary went into labour while John was at work, and a few hours later, they welcomed their daughter, Amelie. It was an uneventful, complication free delivery, and John was pleased to find that Amelie was born with the same shaped ears as his own, and the small stork bite that seemed to crop up in every Watson birth that John knew about. He kissed Mary on the forehead before leaving her to rest, but it was a hollow comment that followed, "Thank you for the daughter."  She had no answer, closing her eyes in silence.

John had texted both Sherlock and Greg later that afternoon asking them if they wanted to meet for pints since, as John reasoned, he would likely be too tired and too needed at home before getting the chance to do that again. Mary was exhausted, he'd said, and when Sherlock asked about being a new father, John just smiled. In Sherlock's opinion, the smile did not quite reach John's eyes, in fact, far from it. John was seated at the bar when his mobile rang, his expression slightly concerned when it was the hospital ringing him, and he flashed the caller ID to his mates before answering. Sherlock would later recall that John placed the mobile on the ear nearer to his friends, holding it slightly away from his head and at high volume - things that John Watson (or anyone else, typically) would not usually do - which allowed Sherlock to catch most of the conversation on the other end. Sherlock would wonder later exactly how intentional those behaviours were.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes."

"... a bit of a problem."

"Is the baby all right?"

"... daughter is fine..." There was some inaudible sounds, then, "... Is Mrs. Watson with you by any chance?"

"Of course not," he laughed. "She's there at the hospital. Room 210."

There was a sickening feeling then as Sherlock watched John's icy eyes as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, "... can't seem to locate her..."

John took a sip as he listened. "What do you mean, you can't locate her?"

"... locked unit.....checking security tapes..."

John's lips thinned out under a stony countenance. "I'll be right there," and he disconnected the call. Greg and Sherlock each pushed their drinks back, fully expecting John to do the same in his hurry to head back to the hospital.

"John." Greg spoke as Sherlock looked on, pondering John Watson and the inconsistency and the memory of his parent's Christmas gathering. There was some urgency and insisting in Greg's tone, to no avail. John took another swallow.

He shrugged, seemingly in no rush. "I'm sure she's there. I'm not sure how a hospital can bloody misplace a patient, for fuck's sake."

Greg's mobile rang then. "Lestrade," he answered, walking away, but Sherlock, watching both Greg and John, knew the subject of that conversation without having to hear any part of it. Greg's glance looked over at John, whose eyes glittered hard, deadly, emotionless. The look Greg gave Sherlock said it all, while his words said simply, "Gotta run mates. Catch up later." He looked at John then. "Hospital, John. Go see to your family." Greg's head cocked to the side as Sherlock touched him on the arm. The slight nod of Greg's head told Sherlock that the involvement of the Yard indicated some level of concern.

The hospital was waiting for him, a security guard stationed at the outside of Obstetrics. Photo IDs were being checked in addition to the typical security process. Baby Watson was fussing in the back room of the nursery, and John was led there by the nursing coordinator. Sherlock came along with him, for whatever kind of support that John would need. And all of them knew that, if something was amok there at the Obstetrics unit, that Sherlock would hone right in on it.

"I don't know how it happened, Dr. Watson. Mrs. Watson had fed the baby, returned her to the nursery, and that was the last we saw of her. It's a locked unit, and we have security cameras, and we have checked the footage, searched..." she kept going as John stood at Amelie's bassinet, watching the tiny red face, fists waving, the newborn unhappy, with her fussing and wriggling. Sherlock stood a few paces away, also watching, but not the baby. His radar had been activated, and the John Watson he saw before him now did not seem to mesh with the John Watson he thought he knew. Cold, stoic - not an uncommon Brit temperament, he knew, but not John. Not here, not like this. Something was most assuredly wrong with John Watson.

One of the nurses approached then, held out a bottle of formula to John, indicated a rocking chair, and asked if he wanted to sit down with the baby, give her a bottle. John could only stare, until Sherlock pushed at John's shoulder until he lowered himself into the rocker. Moments later, John was staring blankly, straight ahead, the bottle in hand, the baby suckling at it a few minutes before falling asleep. Sherlock watched John's detachment, his inattention.

"For God's sake, John," he finally said, taking the bottle and set it aside before he dropped it. Worse consequence if he dropped the baby, and Sherlock, with the greatest discomfort he'd encountered in many years, slid hands under the papoosed baby and eased it - her, he reminded himself, her - into the bassinet. She didn't awaken. Staring at John, who, if Sherlock didn't know better looked intoxicated or somehow mind-altered somehow, only raised more questions. His mind wandered, and did not return until Greg was buzzed into the back room there in the nursery. His face was grim.

"John."

"Where's Mary?"

Greg looked between the two of them. "Okay to speak freely?"  John shrugged his shoulder, puzzled, giving Greg a look as if that were the most ridiculous question ever asked. "Hospital reported her missing shortly after you were notified. We are unclear how she left the OB unit undetected, but video surveillance indicates she slipped out a side door.  We found a restricted access badge in a trash bin, and think she, somehow, may have taken a cab to Heathrow. Possibly purchased a ticket, cash, to Paris. We think it might have been her, based on ticket agent description. The flight has already landed, no sign of her there. Checking security footage now, but looks like, if that was her, she could have gone anywhere." Greg consulted his notes. "So sorry, mate. We need to head to your place, take a look around. Any ideas, John? Did she say anything at all?"

"What?" John's tone was unfeeling, hard, as he spat out the question. "Did she say anything to me like, oi, I'm leaving you? I think I'd bloody remember that." John closed his eyes, leaned his head back in the rocker. Sherlock and Greg both exchanged puzzled looks.

Greg pressed. "John, look, mate, I'm sorry. Few more questions."

No response. Sherlock stepped closer, and wanted to swat John upside the head, but instead tapped him smartly on the shoulder. " _John_. Focus."

"What?"

"Questions, John. Mary is _missing_."

Wordlessly, John looked, annoyed, at Greg, who said quietly, "John, can you check on-line bank accounts for withdrawals? And, again, going to need your help at your house, see what's missing and if she left any traces behind."

He looked stupidly at Greg, then, as if there was a foreign language being spoken. Sherlock held out a hand at John, then, said crisply, "Mobile please."  John complied, slowly, an eye narrowing with only a scant bit more emotion and intensity than he'd shown in the last moments.  Sherlock entered several passwords, to no avail, then held the phone out to John. "Enter the damn code."

"You're _slipping_." John's tone indicated irritation about much more than passcodes.

"I'm sure I could figure it out, given enough time, which is running short. You can't have changed that much..." and even as he said it, a glimpse of a cold, calculating, conniving, deceitful John was visible for brief seconds until a neutrality overtook again.

"There."

Sherlock scrolled through a bunch of apps, opened a few things, saying little but occasionally raising his eyes to look at John carefully, pale eyes piercing in the silence. He found the banking app, opened it, then held it out again to John, who fussed less but entered the passcode of letters, numbers, and symbols. Sherlock touched a few screens open, then held the mobile screen out so John could see it. At John's muttered, "What the fuck!" Greg leaned over, wholly focused and interested in the discovery. John pressed a quivering hand to a pale face and closed his eyes. He completely hid the satisfied smile that was threatening to show itself.  But inwardly, as he skillfully was maintaining the shocked exterior, he was _bloody basking_ in the early success.

~~~~**~~~~~

"We are clear, then."

Mary had listened, John had spoken. There would be nothing in writing. Things were laid out factually, and on the occasion when Mary attempted an interjection, John held up a finger, brooked no interruption, and continued. He'd considered a few plans: An uncomplicated birth would be handled differently than one with complications, and a c-section would require something different. There were minimal choices presented, but John felt the options allowed Mary to determine the best workaround that still gave some consideration to herself. In his mind, allowing her some degree of choice without giving him any advance notice added to his own credibility, in the end. His suggestion was that she purchase an airline ticket somewhere but not use it, lay low in a hotel room a few days while she regained her strength back after the birth if possible. He reminded her the longer she was around the baby, the harder it might be to leave, but he reminded her that the end result would be the same, she was unequivocally leaving, _alone_ , no matter what. He methodically and systematically explained each version of the plan, countered each argument before she could speak it, and then made the statement: we are clear.

He left out the part of how he had switched out her oral contraceptives for placebo, thinking that would only serve to annoy her. The pregnancy had only taken two months of trying on his part, and the waiting was almost over by this point. He wanted the baby, and he wanted Mary gone.

"Crystal." It was one of the last direct words she would ever speak to him. There was just nothing more that needed to be said. There was a brief exchange there in the delivery room when the nurse was present, a few interactions immediately after Amelie was born, but that was it.

He gave her a pre-paid, untrackable mobile phone, one of two he purchased, capable of texts and pictures but not internet. He told her he would send the occasional photo of the baby, and preferred that she not maintain contact of any type. He handed her a withdrawal ticket from their joint bank account, instructed her to remove exactly half the funds (generous, in his opinion) the next day, and that the account would continue to be monitored after that then certainly restricted, frozen, and closed once the police were involved and events had been set in motion. He provided a clean passport, obtained from clandestine connections that John hadn't used in years, and would never use again. It all hinged, John told her, on his careful planning and her unquestioned obedience as she disappeared. He advised her that, until the baby was born and until she was out of the area, that she could safely presume that she was being followed, tailed, and carefully observed.  He had a copy of the flash drive, he had her confession, he would bring her not only to her knees, but, as he explained to her, he would see to it that she never surfaced again. He cautioned her that if she had any inclination that John would not follow through, that he had no qualms about enlisting any of his more dangerous connections from his covert military ops. He explained that he would not hesitate to involve Mycroft Holmes, who likely harbored some ill feelings in her direction, if further motivation was needed. 

Mary underestimated him, and was now ready to pay the price.  He had left her with no other option.


	3. "John, What have you Done?"

And now, as expected, the discovery of the bank account withdrawal was known, and the focus of discussion shifted to getting Mary's photo widespread in the community and across missing persons networks. There was speculation that John was lucky Mary didn't run away and take the baby with her, and, when Sherlock mentioned it to John, he had no trouble shakily agreeing with that.  John allowed himself to be led through the first few shocking days of his new life, under media scrutiny yet again.  Fargo got a bit more attention, once again, and John ended up with a polite, "thinking of you" email from both the director he'd worked with and his agent, who he heard from every so often for various reasons.

One evening John ventured out with Amelie to Baker Street, ostensibly to visit Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock arrived home from the blustery outdoors while they chatted in Mrs. Hudson's cozy flat.  When Sherlock invited him to "stop by before you leave, if you want," John took him up on that while Amelie slept in his arms. The lump in his throat made his voice hoarse as he admitted tentatively to Sherlock that he was having difficulty just being in the home he'd shared with Mary.  With sadness behind his eyes, he said that there were just too many painful memories.  Sherlock suggested that he move back into Baker Street, at least until John caught up on his rest or until Mary came back. And so, finally, he was sharing his former upstairs bedroom with Amelie. If Sherlock found John a bit quieter than previously, they both acknowledged it was certainly attributable to stress.

Mycroft offered his assistance to John in the search,  which John sidestepped with a topic at the ready.  He requested help finding a part time nanny and asked Sherlock's brother if he could he recommend someone.  Mycroft came through within a few days, and the nanny was hired so that John was able to return to work.  Mrs. Hudson was very visible, as well, enjoying having both men in the flat once again as well as a precious, although frequently fussy, baby.  Amelie was not, under any stretch of the imagination, particularly easy-going.

No one mentioned Mary, and John didn't volunteer anything.  The closest topic that the men have discussed, just dancing around the edge of the volcano as it were, was when John volunteered that Amelie was unquestionably Watson-gened, through and through. He offered that he'd been relieved to see the baby's distinct ear shape (and turning his head so Sherlock could see the similarity) as well as the presence of the nevi simplex on the back of Amelie's neck.  Sherlock nodded with an odd look that led John to suspect that Sherlock had wondered, perhaps, as well.

The baby had decided, after a few long weeks of fitful sleeping habits, that giving John a few uninterrupted hours might be wise. Apparently, John thought, smiling to himself as he snuggled with her as she took a bottle, she was more intuitive than most who dared to cross him. Oh, he can play the role of easy-going, good-natured companion, and he chose to do so, most of the time. But, much like Lester Nygaard, he was  _much more_ than that. And now that things had begun, there were less obstacles in his way. John has his sights now set on something much larger. Or, he grinned inwardly to himself, something much taller. _Finally_.

Lestrade texted John one afternoon that he was on his way over with an update. Shortly, they were all seated, Sherlock having put his current project aside, the baby monitor silent, although John will not let her sleep too long to sabotage what he hopes will be more appropriate night sleeping hours. Lestrade didn't actually have to tell either of them much; they could read the bad news in his carriage and tone. "There is no trace of Mary. All our leads have dead ended, John. Look mate, I'm sorry. I thought the sighting in Beijing was going to pan out." The international hub ended up being yet another false lead, a clue in one of many airport sightings that went nowhere. Best they could trace her activity, Mary had apparently flown from London to Paris and then dropped off the radar. They talk a bit about leaving the file open, and that perhaps more information will surface as time goes on.

After Greg left, Sherlock pondered some of the things he'd watched in John's face, and looked at him intently as John returned his gaze unwaveringly.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, waiting not only for John to make a gesture that implied, go on, but to speak.

"What is it." John allowed the slight edge of frustration to show.

"What have you done?" Sherlock's question was delivered low-keyed, open-ended, curious.

John steeled his expression, aiming for puzzled, willed his blink reflex to a minimum, and wriggled his tongue in his mouth to stave off the reflexive stress-related swallow that wanted to happen. He let his brows come together. "Beg pardon, mate?"

"You obviously don't expect Mary to return. You haven't for a long time now." John made an off-hand gesture of not understanding, so Sherlock continued. "You chose not to get Mycroft involved, and while he is dramatically unpleasant on many fronts, he would undoubtedly have been able to help far beyond the reach of the Met.  You're here and not at your home, you have not particularly been _missing_ her, and you are very calmly accepting things.  Your behaviour doesn't add up. I don't think Lestrade picked up on these little facts yet."

John looked down at the floor, to hide eyes that he knew in all likelihood were too bright. "It's unsettling at home. I'm heartbroken over this, you know."

"Actually, _heartbroken_ , you are not." Sherlock spoke his observation slowly and quietly while John looked out the window, keeping his eyes averted. Conveniently, Amelie made a few squeaky sounds from her cot, and then decided she meant business and became more upset and loud.  Also conveniently, Sherlock for some reason let the subject drop as John rose to attend his daughter's needs.  Lifting her up sweetly, he changed a nappy and took her to the kitchen to prepare a round of beverages - two cups of tea and one warmed bottle of formula.

Amelie was about six weeks old when she picked up her first cold, and, miserably unable to breathe when laying down, her sleep - and John's - was disrupted.  All of the flatmates were irritable - John from fatigue and Sherlock just by association with two unhappy Watsons. John had finally put the baby to sleep in a reclining infant seat, and on the fourth attempt managed to successfully sneak out of their shared upstairs room. Already wearing pyjamas, he brought his pillow and duvet down the stairs, having left them in the hall before tucking his daughter in for the night.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yes, having a bit of a sleepover with the couch, playing it safe." He tossed the pillow at one end of the couch. "Here is perfect, staying out of the little tyrant's room tonight."

John stretched, knowing skin was showing between his tee shirt and low-slung pyjamas and feeling Sherlock's eyes. Amelie's cold was not deliberate, but the timing may have been fortuitous. He clicked on a news station, curled up, and willed himself to relax, scratching at his ribs before getting comfortable.

"You're going to be stiff tomorrow."

"Don't care. Not sleeping with a snotty, restless six week old." He waited Sherlock out, knowing there was more he wanted to say, words that John could all but feel unspoken and unuttered, in the silence.

"I'm probably going to be up a while. There's a bed in my room if you want."

John glanced over, sensing and seeing Sherlock's discomfort, and can't help the slight smugness he felt but kept hidden. "It'll bother you, then, if I'm out here while you're working?" John had no qualms about turning tables when given the opportunity, and met Sherlock's gaze straight on. Turning up the heat, so to speak, on the sexual undertones already in the room as well as Sherlock's discomfiture, John thought, was just what  _this doctor_  ordered. And John just happened to also be carrying the cure for it, as well.  John almost felt badly for the man as he watched.   _Almost_.

"Not really." Sherlock saw John watching him, then swallowed and looked away. "Maybe a bit. It's of no matter to me." He looked over again, "But heaven knows _you_ need your beauty sleep. You're looking a bit worn these days." The corner of his mouth twitched, lightening the awkwardness.

"Well, yeah, it's not been easy on me or Amelie.  Or you, for that matter." He let his voice gentle as he paused, thinking Sherlock was playing along rather admirably. "And I am worn out.  We can't all look like we stepped right out of GQ magazine like you." John made sure to be caught looking at Sherlock's (handsome) form, a full body glance that was both approving and appreciative. Having grabbed the attention of his flatmate, John realised, he can almost see, smell, and taste the electric appeal and the heated chemistry, from across the room. Huffing out an emotional breath, he stood, grabbed the pillow, left the duvet. "I'll go on, then," he uttered quietly, their eyes holding a moment too long. "Try not to wake me when you come in."

He snagged the baby monitor on his way past, and thought perhaps that had actually gone very well. And very according to plan.  He would have liked to have been watching Sherlock's face when he practically invited him to join him, but his back was already turned.

In his military years, John did sleep soundly, but since the time Sherlock was shot, truth be told, his sleep had been light and easily interrupted. The baby monitor started making noise of rustling, the sound of heavy, congested breathing, and John heard the door open upstairs, carpeted footsteps, and then the sound of patting, and rustling blankets and a nappy change and nose-wiping. There was some quiet whispering going on, and it stirred a warm fullness in John's chest. He considered, wryly, that it was either sentiment or the beginnings of Amelie's cold.  Unexpected, that Sherlock would attend the baby.

He had made distinct strides, Sherlock had, holding her or being interested in her, or studying her, and John thought it was sweet as he watched Sherlock's comfort level expand. There had been a few feedings or nappy changes, and John was judicious in his praises of said activities.  It was actually toward Sherlock that Amelie had given her first real smile.  John fussed about it, all bluster, at the time, noting that she was going to have to learn along with everyone else that she would likely be considered an idiot.  Sherlock had reacted with mock horror at John's comment, and the laugh they'd shared was quite reminiscent of the easy, friendly relationship they'd shared for so many years.

John pondered his options, swung his legs out of bed, padded upstairs to find Sherlock on the bed, holding Amelie as he gave her a warmed bottle.  She looked tiny nestled in his long arms. His head had been bent down, tousled curls catching John's admiration, but he heard John's approach and looked up with pleasure, a slightly lopsided smile in his direction.

"I can get that if you want." John stood, and their eyes locked, with Sherlock in blue dressing gown, leaning against the headboard of the bed, a knee raised. There was a hunger, John thought, as he let his eyes linger on John's face, then flicked downward, settling on waist before taking in bare feet and then back up to John's own mussed hair.

"I was hoping you'd sleep through the feeding."

"Right. Beauty sleep and such." They shared a smile, Sherlock snuggling the baby, John leaning against the door jamb. John waited until Sherlock looked back up at him, then continued, "You look right domestic there." The gravelly aspect of his voice only furthered his cause, he thought. "It's nice," he added, low.

"I'll finish, and then come join you." The baby was hungry, John could tell, sucking strongly on the bottle there in Sherlock's arms. "If that's okay. And if you're up for company."

"Up for what, you coming to join me in your bed?" John let the quiet words linger, and there was no mistaking their intent. "Oh, I'm definitely up for that." Sherlock moistened his lips, watching John's mouth now, taking in dark eyes in the soft light of the room.

John had no intention of stopping himself as he crossed the room on quiet feet, eased onto the bed next to Sherlock. They both looked at each other, John's hand coming up along Sherlock's back there on John's bed. The bottle stopped making little bubbling noises as Amelie's eyes were wide, looking at the men. Her face broke out with a toothless grin then, glancing from one man to the other and a mouthful of formula ran down her chin. "You're distracting her," Sherlock accused, blotting her chin with a corner of a spare blanket. "Go on, then."

"In a minute." John's hand came up then along Sherlock's face, and he tugged slightly until their lips were close, closer, and their heads inclined as lips met.

"She's watching us," Sherlock said uncomfortably.

"She'll get used to it. Because I've been waiting a bloody long time." John's voice was quiet, breathy, confident. He let his eyes close then, leaning his head against Sherlock's. "And I have very little intention of stopping now." The heat, the touch of skin against skin, was comforting and settling.  He pressed warm lips to Sherlock's temple, his tongue coming out to just barely taste skin.  Then rising, John slid open the bedside table drawer, wrapped his hand around the bottle of lube and box of condoms. Pocketing both, he left the room.

When Sherlock rejoined him, John was already hard with aching with want. The room was warm, and Sherlock pulled back the duvet, to ease in awkwardly and slide his cold toes on John's calves. His pale eyes looked to John as John began, "So, you ever...?"  He let the question dangle, suspended in the stillness of the room.

"Ever what, John? Just ask. I mean, you grabbed prophylactics and lubricant from upstairs, we may be moving past conventional boundaries here."

"Ever had sex with someone?"

"Define."

"Pretty self-explanatory, in my opinion."

"If mutual masturbation and reciprocated fellatio counts as having sex, then yes, have tried that. Had a partner in university, and our one attempt, well, it was not enjoyable, and I've never... since then." John nodded to spare him having to say the words, and Sherlock gratefully shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"It can be wonderful, you know." John reached out a warm hand, slid up along Sherlock's ribs to his jaw.  They leaned together, lips meeting, warm and growing warmer. "I'm sorry. And I'm sorry that the man you were with wasn't careful. Because it should have been better than that for you."

"Not everyone is considerate, you know. It was ... ok.  Just not enjoyable." He sighed, pressed on. "It wasn't worth the hassle, after that."

John squelched down the irritation at whomever had not treated Sherlock well even as he fondly noted that Sherlock may have just tipped his hand that he cared. "If you're willing, I can try my damnedest to make it good for you."

There was a small victorious grin on Sherlock's face that he didn't even try to mask. "I was hopeful that might challenge you."

"Berk."  John couldn't stop the grin.

Lips came together again, and after the first few moments there was nothing gentle about the kiss - but insistence, and heat, and seeking, and dominance. John pressed into Sherlock's chest, ribs and hard muscle encasing important physical things going on like breathing, which became more rapid, and hearts pounding, which increased rather remarkably in rate. John's hands drew to Sherlock's nipples, bringing a brief moan from him, higher pitched than John expected.

"You like that?"

Their heads pulled back, and John considered the amazement in Sherlock's face as he responded, "Apparently."

"No one ever...?"

"Obviously." Sherlock's hand went to the back of John's head, tugging. "Again," he demanded.

And there was nipping, playful teeth coming out to tease then, until they needed to separate long enough to quickly sling off clothing, tossing items off the bed in haphazard directions.

"What do you want tonight?" John asked, their mouths apart slightly, breathing in each other and both pressing urgently against the other, erections firm and hard and throbbing by degrees.  

Sherlock's piercing look back at John let him know he'd noticed the intent that this was not just for tonight, a one-off. "You, in me."

"You don't hav--"

"Why the hell would you even bother to ask, if you're not going to listen?"

"Okay, but we're stopping if -- "

"Fine."

"Listen to me, I mean it. I'll not have it hurt you."  John leaned up on an elbow, his fingers in Sherlock's hair, his chest pressing Sherlock's into the bed. "It'll be easier if you're on your hands and knees, the angle's better, but," John eased his lips against Sherlock's sensitive throat, nipples again, "but for now, I want to watch your face." Sherlock's erection had flagged a bit as John slicked up a few fingers and eased up against a very tight and very nervous bed partner. Just the tip of a very lubed finger sent Sherlock reflexively scrambling out of the way towards the top of the bed, and John moved his hands completely away, settling Sherlock back down with above-the-waist touches and a few hot-breathed kisses. "Not tonight. Relax. We're not doing that tonight."

"Yes, tonight." And when John opened his mouth again to argue, Sherlock continued, in a harsh tone, trying to assume control, "Or you can get out of my bed."

"Absolutely not. I am not traumatising you, and I'm not leaving. I like it right here, with you, and ... we have options."

"I want what I want."

"Your brain might, but your body isn't agreeing with you." John could feel the catecholamine-induced tachycardia through Sherlock's thin ribs over the left side of his chest. "Yet."

"Try again, I can do this now."

"Sherlock," John said warningly as his hand was grabbed and pressed down low.

"Go on then, I'm ready," he said, and when John kept still, Sherlock continued, "Why are you so bloody difficult?"

"Not supposed to be like facing a firing squad. _Idiot._  Do you really think I want the first time we do this to be with you gritting your teeth just to get through it?  I'm sorry the associations are unpleasant, but _I'm_ not going to hurt you." He tried to smooth the harshness of the words with soft lips, tongue, tentatively reaching, growing stronger and more sure. "Not bloody likely."

"Fine. All right, your way then." He agreed as if it were scheduling a dental appointment and planning on no Novocaine. "But I'm getting my way tomorrow."

John leaned up on an elbow, leaving his body at an angle and his hand with freedom to roam. Sherlock, he realised, was more relaxed now.  He watched the bounding pulse point in Sherlock's neck as he slid his still-slicked hand down, lightly, casually, gently taking him in hand. His own shaft was hard, a drop of fluid at the tip, as he ground slightly and slowly against Sherlock's thigh while his hand found a rhythm, stroking him back to fully erect, that made Sherlock's breath hitch. Their mouths came together again, nipping and sucking and light involvement of teeth as both chased physical release. John felt throbbing increasing under his hand wrapped solidly around Sherlock, and felt the clenching of Sherlock's entire body as he uttered a few deep breathy moans, and moments later released hotly over John's hand, trickling down over his own belly and John's hip. When Sherlock had a few moments to regain coherent thought processes, he reached down long fingers to John's groin. Tracking his hand through the wetness already there, he grabbed John into a snug fist and held still while John thrust, hard, hot, tension building and coiling and growing ever warmer until, like a spring, there was sweet, blessed, deep, pulsating release.

Sherlock was just drifting off, in John's sticky wet embrace, when the sounds came through the baby monitor again. John groaned, and watched Sherlock roll over, mumbling something that sounded like "not it."  John pulled on his pyjamas, wiping off as much cooling body fluids as he could on a discarded shirt.  He found her in the seat, as expected, but with formula all over her chin, her front, down her blankets, that part _not expected_.  John learned that moment that Sherlock apparently needed an additional tidbit of baby-feeding education, and vowed to instruct him on the very critical element of burping a baby next opportunity.  Once warm and dry, she seemed sleepy again, and John lay down just briefly on the bed, just to be sure she fell asleep.

Sherlock was watching from the doorway, tea in hand, when Amelie let out an emphatic wail and John opened eyes in confusion.  Dim light diffused through the window shade, and the early morning London noise filtered in.

"I think I'm insulted," Sherlock said airily as John stood too quickly, leaning back against the edge of the bed while his body caught up with his awakening.  He'd been on top of the covers, and his feet were freezing.

"Sorry."  John looked pointedly at Sherlock's steaming mug.  "Is there more of _that_?"

"I have more of a lot of things.  And you owe me something. It's _tomorrow_ , John."

John felt like his brain came back on line, then, and he picked up Amelie.  His step felt lighter, his smile genuine and unstoppable.  "Yeah, okay, that sounds like a worthy undertaking for the day."  He approached Sherlock, his arm coming up behind Sherlock's back, along his ribs, touching bare skin at his waist, fingers warm and territorial.  

There was a sparkle in Sherlock's eye as he offered John his mug, and after John had taken it, he spoke. "I seem to recall a discussion about having sex and sharing a cigarette with you, long ago."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten that." As far as John knew, Sherlock had quit completely and would be unlikely to pick up the habit again. He hoped, anyway. "The flat I guess is your domain, but the baby is definitely a no-smoking zone."

~~~~~**~~~~~

"So how does Mary like Australia?"  

John had returned from work, Sherlock from some assistance at the Met, they'd eaten dinner as usual, and John had just tucked Amelie into her cot.  Inhaling sharply, John turned his gaze to Sherlock's piercing scrutiny. " _What_?"

Sherlock allowed the slightest smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Not repeating it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." John felt the edge of his mobile under his arm, through pocket trousers. Had Sherlock located the weather app that he'd added the location to and then taken a huge leap?  Or was he somehow just fishing?

Sherlock stared intently at John for a moment, casually - but nothing is casual about the man - letting his own fingers idly rub over the round scar on his chest as John watched. "I _know_ , John."

Their eyes met, and John got the distinct impression that somehow Sherlock was bluffing. His eyes were puzzled, but the gaze bores into John as if scanning his brain. John willed himself steady. "Is Mary in Australia, Sherlock?" There was a shake to his voice, the emotion just under the surface. "Swear to God, tell me if you know something."  Sherlock stared at him, cool and steady, without words. John pressed on, "Did you get Mycroft involved?"

"I found your prepaid mobile while you were at work. One contact, no name. The actual messages were gone, but why else would you have it? You have, _and love_ , your smartphone. The only reason would be for secure, untraceable messaging. Two phones, then, yours and one other." He stood up, energy and reasoning requiring pacing, apparently. "That mobile has photos of the baby not in the flat, taken with no identifying landmarks, definitely with no people in them. It stands to reason that if you orchestrated this, that you offered a deal of some sort. It would also explain the money, withdrawn well before the birth." Sherlock's raised brow at least communicated more amusement than anger, for which John was grateful. "It actually explains a lot."

"If you know something about where Mary is, you need to tell me _right bloody now._ " His voice was low and threatening and he was reminded of how acting can cross lines of realism all too easily, calling into mind how someone should feel or behave under certain circumstances. The memory of the Fargo director insulting him, calling him amateur, inciting passion, came to mind then, and John embraced it, feeling his chest and shoulders expand as if physically getting ready for battle.

"You realise, if I was trying to solve Mary's disappearance, that I would have done so already." Sherlock eyed him steadily, ignoring John's demand as well as his snort of disbelief at his arrogance. "It is interesting that you never asked, isn't it?" He pressed ahead. "The John Watson I know would have moved hell or high water to find out what happened, unless he already knew.  He would have bolted from that bar when notified his wife was unaccounted for.  It is unlikely he would, actually, have been in that bar to begin with."  John allowed his gaze to be somewhat challenging, let his eyes sparkle with life as he looked back at his flatmate, who was much more than a flatmate now.  "You may consider yourself clever, but more clever than I, _you are not._   There is no question in my mind that you orchestrated this, but I am choosing - for the most part - to overlook it." He turned his attention back to the laptop, allowing the silence to hang for a few moments as John remained silent. "You should be more careful not to react when that location is mentioned in the news or in conversation."

A few nights back, John recalled a follow-up on a public interest story, and that he had indeed turned toward the telly to watch the interview, with the familiar Sydney skyline behind the interviewee.  And then, just the other night, there had been a discussion between them and the nanny.  They'd been chatting, before she left for her home, and Sherlock had asked her about vacation spots, _doing research_ , he'd said. _For a case_ , he'd said. He'd introduced a few top picks and a bit of commentary - New York, Johannesburg, Rio de Janeiro, Dubai, eventually coming 'round to Australia.   _Research_ and _case_ apparently meant on a personal level, John realised, sensing correctly now, that he'd been tested and had failed, blind-sided unawares.  John held himself in check, quiet, looking back at Sherlock steadily.

"I am not unhappy about this turn of events, you realise."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," John attempted, his attention on Sherlock's face and the pompous, pretentious, disbelieving smirk he was wearing as his eyes flicked only briefly at John before resuming his reading.

~~~~~**~~~~~

The case had been a three day whirlwind of police activity, trying to control public panic over a menacing threat hovering over the community, and Sherlock's brilliance challenged and questioned, as he was stressed, pressured from all sides - Lestrade, even his brother - to solve the case. John, however, was steadily supportive.

"You've got this. I know you do." His hand rubbed tense shoulders, sliding into dark curls, before withdrawing. "It'll click into place, the details."

"But..." Sherlock began, launching a few irritated complaints about how the details were incomplete.  His frustration mounted, and John brought a few fingers to his lips.

"It has to be tied into the bill of lading, from the package delivery. Maybe a watermark or something? The delivery number had a hidden message?" John's voice was soothing, intentionally calm, as he pressed a cup of hot tea into Sherlock's hand there on Baker Street. The nanny had left, the monitor was quiet, and they sat in silence for a few long moments until things grew still. Sherlock sipped tea, set the cup down, closed his eyes. It was then that John allowed himself a smile as he watched. God, this man... Behind closed eyelids, Sherlock's eyes moved back and forth, mind engaged, and John could tell the moment there had been a breakthrough.

Long legs sprung his body upright, hand on his mobile to ring Lestrade, eyes bright. "John, brilliant!  Conducting light." The phone was ringing, John could hear. "Pick up, damn it!" To John, "Not the delivery at all, the package, but something else. A verbal detonation sequence, code word, spoken from the driver. It had nothing at all to do with... " He exploded with a few more rapid-fire conclusions before John heard Lestrade answer.  John hung around long enough to satisfy his curiosity, get the information he needed.

The flat was quiet, and John checked on Amelie before heading to the bedroom. She was on her back, blanket at her chin, thumb in her mouth, dark hair strands thin and being replaced by lighter blond. He eased the door shut, crawled into first his pyjamas then into bed.  He fired off a text message, followed up with more information when queried, and willed his pangs of nervous excitement into submission. The book was lulling him to sleep by the time Sherlock joined him.

"There's a press conference tomorrow at ten. Likely to be a bit of chaos there." Sherlock began undressing.

"So I gathered." John set the book aside, enjoying the view. "Amazing."

"Big case. There'll be quite a bit of relief, you solving it." John watched as more skin was revealed. "Connecting all those details is really incredible.  But you already know that."

Sherlock preened, as expected, and slid into bed naked. There was a satisfied aura about him. "We are expected to be there, along with Greg and a few others."

"No issues on my end. You should probably try to behave yourself, though," John said, smirking.

"Noted. No sexual innuendo about my blogger."

John's mobile buzzed, then, and their eyes cut to the screen.  It was John's agent, and John silenced it, flipped the phone over even as he wished the bloody thing had been silent and on the nightstand where it belonged.

"Not going to get that?"

"Later." He brushed a hand over Sherlock's chest on his way to the softly furred line of hair that began at his navel.

"You looking for work again?" Sherlock caught his hand, stilled it.

"Not exactly."  John knew Sherlock could see through most things, decided against lying outright.  "Another deal in the works, and she's trying to see how much interest there is in this project."  His hand was released, perhaps reluctantly, and John reached down low, stroking. "It'll keep until tomorrow."

The recent solving of a case had heightened Sherlock's already keen sensitivity, and he let an eyebrow raise at John, wordlessly letting him know that John wasn't getting away with anything. John let his own eyebrow raise, arrogantly responding that, actually, yes, indeed he was getting away with something.

John shrugged. He felt Sherlock relax into him, sliding hands inside John's waistband, seeking. Sherlock flopped around, presenting his lithe back toward John's front as they lay on their sides. They'd spent a bit of time learning what positions they preferred, going slowly and carefully. Sherlock had relaxed greatly under John's caring touch, the trust between them solid and secure. They still were trying things, and occasionally added a new position to the mix. John rolled on a condom, applied lube, eased a slick finger then two into Sherlock as he ground his pelvis back on John's fingers, arching his back. Lining himself up, John eased in slowly, knowing Sherlock's impatience would be stretched thin, but he held firmly, in control until he sensed Sherlock's surrender. Power struggles were sometimes best won with gentle, sometimes unseen, authority, he reminded himself as he picked up the pace. Indeed. And this had been wholly and completely worth every battle along the way. His slicked hand came around front to grab a hold of Sherlock's erection, and the keening from Sherlock, overwhelmed and on a case-solved quest for release, started low, crescendoed through his orgasm, the waves and ripples squeezing around John. John's own release coiled, sprung free, the tension beginning in his lower back and working it's way outward, ripples trembling into his chest. They fell asleep, entangled and satiated.

~~~~~**~~~~~

When John got out of bed at Amelie's beckoning early the next morning, carried her to the kitchen to warm a bottle, he found Sherlock already nursing a cup of tea. John fixed his own, uttering a deeper than usual growl at the first sip.  Amelie watched from his arms as he spoke. "Is your throat sore? God, mine is. Not sure if I got something from work, or..." He cleared his throat, the roughness audible.

"Have you been putting strange things into your mouth again?" Sherlock grinned. "If you don't want to use your mouth tonight, you don't need to invent some bogus medical condition, you know." He stood, closed the gap between then, pressing up against John with little left to the imagination. John chuckled, sliding Amelie out of the way as Sherlock reminded him, "We have lots of options."

"Bogus medical condition, my arse."  When John realised what he'd said, he rolled his eyes as Sherlock muttered, something about options. "Here," John said, pressing closer himself. "Kiss me, I'm sure all these bogus throat bacteria would love a change of scenery." John felt Sherlock still, briefly, as even the word bacteria was something on a par with foreplay for his flatmate.

"Can I culture that?" His hand held John's slightly stubbled jaw, and the gleam in his eye, John worried, was probably from him considering throat swabs and punch biopsy ideas.

"No."

"Tomorrow?" They shared a smile at the associations that word held for them, when Sherlock insisted on experimentation in the first few days of their physical relationship.

"Doubtful."

The nanny arrived as John was reading a book to Amelie in his arms, and so he nuzzled her as he set her down in her infant seat. Sherlock watched him carefully. "Should you really be kissing her if your throat is sore?" They had a few minutes before having to leave to meet Lestrade.

"Ah, she's probably immune. For all I know she gave it to me." As John reached for his jacket, he felt Sherlock's gaze, eyes narrowed, and vowed that he was going to have to be a bit more careful.

The press conference, as expected, was packed. They waited at the front of the conference room, where Lestrade had gathered the crowd.

John sat to Sherlock's right, water bottle in hand, as Greg opened by reading a statement his office had drafted.  The questions started simply, and as they typically did, Greg responded to a few, but then deferred the next several to John, who answered well, pausing occasionally to clear his throat. His tact along with careful attention to detail, assessing factually as any doctor would appraise any problem, made him a somewhat better choice for the factual retelling. But a few questions in, voice somewhat raspy, he held up a hand, clearing his throat, sipping water, so some of the more edgy questions fell to Sherlock. The answers were cheeky, humourous, and delivered with quick wit. John could not have been more pleased, there, as Sherlock got to show off not only for a nice crowd but news cameras as well.  And once he was on a roll, the questions opened the door for his brilliance to shine. He even, in John's opinion, was not quite so derogatory as he could have been. John hid his pleased smile behind the occasional swigs from his water as the session ended and the cameras stopped rolling.

~~~~~**~~~~~

A few evenings later, John's mobile rang there in the flat. It was his agent, and John prepared to take the call in the bedroom until whatever was said halted him, and he stood for a few moments. "I'll ask and get back to you."

The call disconnected, Sherlock looked up to find John pondering him. "What?" John studied him a few moments longer.

"That was my agent again."

"Well aware."

"She saw your interview today, she said, and wants to talk to you. Wants you to call her, if you're inclined."

"Regarding...?"

"Scheduling a reading for a role in a new project."  John watched Sherlock process that, probably recalling the late night unanswered message. "Movie production based on 'Enigma,' a book about Alan Turing."  John tapped a few times on his mobile screen, and Sherlock's vibrated a few seconds later. "Here is her contact. You should call her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, if you spotted a hole or a typo, I'll gladly fix it - let me know. This chapter has been a _bear_!!
> 
> Stay tuned for a brief, slightly amusing epilogue! (I was surprised at what happened, seriously, where did that idea come from!?)


	4. Epilogue

Mycroft's footsteps on the steps had Sherlock scowling before the knock ever sounded at the door.  His hands were full as John answered the door, his umbrella in one, a certified post in the other.

Amelie crawled over, her pudgy hand grasping at the crisply pleated trousers.

John pried her surprisingly tenacious hand away, picked her up.  "Leave Uncle Mycroft alone, he didn't bring you a present today, little one."  The Uncle Mycroft title irritated Sherlock to no end, but John insisted.  Just like John insisted on referring to himself as 'dad' and Sherlock as 'papa.'

"Feel free to drool on his shoes, though, Am."  Sherlock didn't even look over as he spoke.

Mycroft ignored that, turned to John. "Care to join me?" he asked, as he gestured back out the door of the flat.  John glanced at the letter, had something of an ominous feeling in the pit of his gut.

He tilted his head, stated only, "Here's fine."

"My office received this yesterday." He handed John the envelope. "Return address from Milan, no other accompanying documents, but it came in a package with this," and Mycroft pulled a pre-paid mobile phone from his pocket, laid it in John's hand.

His attention now very interested, Sherlock was watching John from his chair.  John watched them both in turn, the envelope tingling in his fingertips.

Mycroft took the silent hesitation as dismissal, bade them both farewell with a slight incline of his head, and left the flat.

The documents were short, John discovered once Sherlock needed to tell him to open the damn envelope.  The first, an annulment decree application, based on fraudulent information on the part of Mary (namely, the inappropriate use of an alias, possession of false identification documents), which, once John appropriately signed it and presented it, this would certify that his marriage to Mary was never truly valid. The second document, a voluntary termination of parental rights, appropriately executed with notary and magistrate seals from the British Law Courts.  John would need to file that for it to be official, as well, but it seemed all properly sorted.

The final paper in the envelope was a cheque with attached stub.  The amount was a hefty sum, but it was the writing on the attached ticket that drew John's eye.  Succinctly, it stated:  "For the adoption fees of Baby Watson.  Must be signed by both parties, no exceptions."  The cheque was made out to Dr. John H. Watson and W. Sherlock S. Holmes.

John handed the paper to Sherlock, noting the date.  Mary had been very punctual - the documents had arrived slightly ahead of schedule by a few days.  And the returned mobile, well, that was just a nice extra touch.   _Well done_.

John glanced at Sherlock's expression as he read.  He wondered what his reaction would be when he discovered that Mary's documents also restricted Amelie's adoption, requiring that they were either married or in a civil partnership.  So far, his expression looked rather favorable, the tell-tale, one-sided, fun-loving smirk with the left corner of his mouth.  

And, if needed, there was always Plan B.

-fin-

~~~~~**~~~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that adoption is far more complicated than this, but, well, John's just a bit out of control here... Apologies for that, but once the idea landed, it became impossible to delete. That sneaky John Watson!

**Author's Note:**

> Fargo. Wow, an interesting and unusual role for Martin Freeman. Writing this has been an odd mixture of fiction in fiction, where a fictional character plays another fictional character, and an interesting and dark facet of solid and dependable character of John Watson emerged. Martin gave a great interview that explained the challenge of the accent he had to learn for his Lester Nygaard role.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please let me know (nicely) if I missed anything or there are big holes anywhere. This was supposed to be about 2000 words... yeah, perhaps a bit more.


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